JULY 30TH 1811 |
My dearest Fiona—We sail for England in a few days’ time and I have no certainty that this letter will arrive there before I do. Our passage cannot, however, be as fast as I could wish because the Minerva must sail in company with her two prizes, the Clorinde and Fidèle.
We fought an action off Madagascar in which these two frigates were finally made to haul down their colours. Northmore commands the one, Topley the other, and I am left with acting lieutenants (all recently midshipmen) to do duty in the Minerva. It was my hope that we might recruit some officers here at the Cape, if only invalids on their way home, but all I could find—and glad I was to offer him a berth—was a master’s mate, Mr Rankin, who is now my acting master.
The voyage here following the action meant hard work for everyone, especially in refitting the almost dismasted Fidèle. Topley brought her in safely, nevertheless, and we have since rigged her (or at least jury-rigged her) in a fashion which should bring her safely to Portsmouth. With the help of the dockyard here, we now have the other two ships in fairly good order. I find myself in the position, in effect, of an Acting-Commodore commanding a frigate squadron. I should never have believed that there could be as much work to do! But we are all in good heart, having been feted as heroes at Capetown, and more indeed than we deserve.
If I have more praise now than I merit it may serve to console me for years of effort which brought me no credit. Admiral Pellew, for example, gave me the task of hunting down a single French privateer, the Subtile. You will remember her, I dare say, from my previous letters. It was a far more difficult operation than this recent action and involved heavier losses, at least through sickness, but I could finally claim that my orders had been carried out, that the Subtile had been burnt. Much good did it do me! Admiral Pellew had gone home before I was able to make my report. His successor had never heard of the Subtile. And what praise can anyone expect as a result of destroying a mere privateer? It means no more than squashing a cockroach with one’s slipper! So if I should be praised overmuch now I can reflect that I did more on earlier occasions and had no praise at all.
I learn here at the Cape, and with great satisfaction, that Josias Rowley is to be made Baronet for the campaign in which he restored the situation after Pym’s defeat at Grand Port. If ever a man deserves recognition it is he. His achievements were brilliant and should always be remembered. Unluckily for him, his battles were fought a long way from home, a success in the Indian Ocean having less appeal to the public than an action off, say, Cadiz. As against that, his victory immediately followed a defeat and was the more welcome, I should suppose, to the Admiralty.
I think I stand to gain a little from the same contrast, my little victory doing yet more to wipe out the memory of that earlier setback. I am lucky in one other respect—even as compared with Rowley—for I shall have the chance to bring my prizes into Portsmouth, almost as if from a victory in the Channel. On this subject I must add—strictly between ourselves, please—that I shall cheat a little over the importance of the Fidèle (known to my seamen as the Fiddle).
According to my guest, Capitaine Peynier, recently of the Clorinde, she is a large corvette of 24 guns. In comparison with our ships, however, her dimensions are those of a small frigate. So I have taken the liberty of shifting four guns into her from the Clorinde— some of whose guns could have been and actually were destroyed in action—which allows me to describe her as a frigate, the Fidèle (28). This will do something to ensure the promotion of Topley; that of Northmore being, I take it, certain.
All my officers did extremely well, I may add, but I have since had to load heavy responsibilities on mere children. Alongside them, I feel as old as Methuselah. Young David Stock is now my first lieutenant, if you please, and it seems only the other day that he was a nondescript boy I picked up on the coast of Ireland when he was far too young to be a midshipman. He fought by my side, killing at least one Frenchman and disarming two others.
I should perhaps add at this point that I have acquired a scar on the left forearm. A French seaman aimed a cut at my head with a cutlass. I took the blow on my raised arm and Tanner ran the fellow through with a boarding pike, perhaps saving my life for the second time. Oddly enough, I felt nothing at the time and only discovered afterwards that my sleeve was soaked in blood. I thought at first it was the blood of my enemies but found, rather to my annoyance, that it was my own.
Should this letter reach you before I do, you must understand that I am bound for Portsmouth. The Minerva will be paid off there and I shall make my report to the Admiralty. Afterwards I shall return to Portsmouth and eventually sail from Southampton for Guernsey. It would be wonderful if you could meet me in London but I think we are more likely to meet in Portsmouth—or Guernsey. At Portsmouth I shall be staying, no doubt, at the George, where the staff will be told to refer to me as Commodore. I am, of course, nothing of the kind but merely a rather senior captain. This fact makes me the more eager to quit Portsmouth—I am just the sort of man who could be asked to sit on a court martial or court of inquiry when all I want is to be with you again at Anneville, at peace and at rest.
This service of mine in the East Indies has kept us apart for longer than we expected, for longer than was fair. I mean now to make up to you for all the time we have lost. Much is made in the ballads and broadsheets about the heroism of men in battle but all too little about what their womenfolk have to endure.
I could wish that my services had gained me a large fortune but we have at least a small estate, a sufficient income to keep a carriage, and some little repute. More than anything we have each other and I can give you my assurance that I am little the worse for serving so long in the tropics. My fear has been that I should reappear in Guernsey without an arm, lacking a leg, blind in one eye, or the worse for some more serious mutilation. There was still greater danger, in fact, that I should die of malaria or hepatitis like so many other officers have done.
But I have been lucky and intend to run no further risks on the homeward voyage. Once I have dropped anchor at Anneville I shall not readily make sail again. Do please take great care of your dear self in the meanwhile. In years of separation I have never forgotten you for a minute. You have always been in my thoughts and now the moment is near when you will be in my arms.
Until then believe me always,
Your affectionate husband,
Richard Delancey
Delancey’s homeward passage from the Cape was uneventful and he managed to keep his squadron together. On September 5th 1811, he sailed into Spithead and saluted the flag of the Commander-in-Chief. The day was fine and much of the Channel Fleet was there in magnificent array. The Minerva was followed by the Clorinde and Fidèle in strict formation, each captured ship flying the white ensign over the tricolour. The Minerva was cheered by all the other men-of-war as she came into the anchorage. When Delancey landed at the sally-port, on his way to call on the Port Admiral, he was cheered again by a crowd collected there. He had the unusual sensation of being the hero of the hour. That the hour would soon pass he knew, having no illusions about that, but it was a moment he would remember and a recognition which his men deserved. Nor was the Port Admiral other than friendly:
“Captain Delancey, I am honoured to welcome you home and am happy to assure you that your fame has gone before you. I have a signal from the Admiralty directing that you report at once to the Senior Naval Member of the Board, bringing with you Lieutenants Northmore and Topley. I now hand you an order to that effect, directing you to come ashore. Allowing you an hour or two in which to collect your gear, I have booked a postchaise for you at midday and you will be at the Admiralty before their Lordships will all have left the office. I am honoured to be among the first to congratulate you but I know that I shall not be the last. Any officer who has captured an enemy ship of equal rate as the result of a single-ship duel has always been given some public recognition. To capture two enemy ships in such an action is an outstanding feat of arms, one for which I cannot recall an exact parallel. In a brilliant campaign, the details of which will be familiar to you, Captain Josias Rowley recaptured the Afticaine, retook the Ceylon, and received the surrender of the Venus. He was not, however, alone, and he did not meet all these opponents at the same time. My guess is that Lieutenant the Hon. Stephen Northmore will be given post rank and that Lieutenant Topley will be made Commander; promotions made out of compliment to you. His Royal Highness the Prince Regent is aware of your achievements, I should add, and has already expressed his approbation in what I understand to have been very generous terms.”
Delancey knew better than to mention these possibilities to Northmore and Topley. He merely told them to wear their best uniforms and be ready to leave for London at noon. By the late afternoon their post-chaise rolled into the forecourt of the Admiralty building and Delancey hastened to present himself to the clerk on duty. In years past he could remember being told to wait on such an occasion, and had waited indeed for hours, but he now sensed a different atmosphere.
“Sir Richard will see you at once, sir,” he was told. In a few minutes he stood in the presence of Admiral Sir Richard Bickerton, to whom he was presented by Mr John Wilson Croker, Secretary to the Board.
“Captain Delancey, Sir Richard,” said Croker, “with two of his officers.”
“Your servant, Sir Richard,” said Delancey. “Allow me to present the Hon. Mr Stephen Northmore and Mr Topley.”
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Captain Delancey, and glad to meet these other gentlemen. May I take the opportunity of conveying to you the approbation of the Board on the occasion of a notable feat of arms? The First Lord wishes to see you before he goes . . . Mr Croker, is the First Lord free?”
“Mr Barrow tells me, Sir Richard, that Sir Robert Barlow is with him at the moment but will be gone in a few minutes. Perhaps you will be good enough to follow me, gentlemen.”
Delancey followed Mr Croker down a corridor and into an office adjoining that of the First Lord, the Rt. Hon. Charles Philip Yorke, son of a former Lord Chancellor. He there made the acquaintance of Mr Frederic Edgcumb, the First Lord’s Private Secretary.
“The Commissioner of Portsmouth Dockyard is with the First Lord now but Mr Yorke will be free to see you very shortly.”
Delancey responded with a bow and Edgcumb was promptly accosted by two other clerks who showed him a document and conferred with him on some obscure but urgent problem. Messengers came and went and there was a continued buzz of activity. Finally, an elderly gentleman emerged from the First Lord’s office and Edgcumb showed him out with some little ceremony, saying finally “Good-bye, Sir Robert.” A minute later he looked briefly into the inner room and, turning back, said: “Captain Delancey, the First Lord will see you and the other gentlemen now.” And now Delancey was in the presence of Mr Yorke, a politician he knew only by name, a previous Home Secretary and one for whom his present office was actually to be his last. He was affable, bland, and careful to say no more than was fitting to the occasion.
“Captain Delancey, I am glad to see you and add my congratulations to all those you will already have received. I also have the honour of conveying to you the official approbation of the Board of Admiralty.”
“Thank you, sir. Allow me to present the Hon. Mr Stephen Northmore and Mr Topley, both of His Majesty’s frigate Minerva.”
“Glad to make your acquaintance, gentlemen. I have to congratulate you on the success of your recent action, which was highly creditable to all who took part in it. In recognition of your gallantry on this occasion, the Board of Admiralty has decided to advance you, Mr Northmore, to post rank and you, Mr Topley, to the rank of master and commander. You both merit this promotion and I have no doubt at all will more than justify the good opinion of you which the Board is thus pleased to signify. Captain Northmore and Captain Topley, I will now ask you to retire while I have a further word with Captain Delancey.”
Northmore and Topley murmured some words of thanks, bowed deeply, and withdrew.
“It is my privilege to inform you, Captain Delancey, that His Royal Highness the Prince Regent has instructed me to present you to him at tomorrow’s levee—you and your two officers, on the occasion of their promotion. Be so good as to call here tomorrow at half-past nine. I shall then take you over to Carlton House. His Royal Highness leaves for Brighton in a few days’ time—it is fortunate that you were able to reach London so soon, as you might otherwise have had to follow him there.”
“I am indeed honoured, sir, by the Prince’s kind notice of me and will wait on you tomorrow.”
Delancey had never attended a levee and knew little or nothing about court etiquette. Many other officers would have seen a special significance in the First Lord’s invitation but his chief concern was with the state of his uniform after years in the East. There was certainly no time to replace anything. If he was worried about his appearance, Northmore and Topley were more worried and probably with more reason. Northmore’s sword was barely adequate and Topley’s could only be described as shabby. They dispersed on leaving the Admiralty, each with some idea of borrowing from friends. Delancey, for his part, went to stay with old Colonel Barrington in St James’s Square. Although almost bedridden, the Colonel was glad to see him and asked whether Fiona was also to be expected.
“Indeed I hope so,” said Delancey, “but all depends upon whether and when she received my letter from the Cape.”
“Ah, I have missed seeing her all these years. She is the sort of person one never forgets. And so you have returned in triumph at last? I read the gazette letters about your action. You have really excelled the hopes of all your friends. We shall yet see you commanding a fleet!”
“I don’t think that probable, sir. I was not given post rank soon enough. But I’ve done sufficient to have gained some little reputation. I seek no more than a name for having done my best.”
“Fiddlesticks, man! We all regard you as a hero and I shall be surprised if the Prince Regent fails to think as we do. In any case we shall dine here tomorrow and celebrate your return. And bring these two officers of yours! Where are they lodging? I must send a servant to find them.” This was done and messages received that they would be happy to accept.
There was no sign of Fiona that night and Delancey told himself that he was unreasonable in thinking that she would go further than Portsmouth. She would know by now that he was in England or anyway she would know by tomorrow from the newspapers. On reaching Portsmouth she would learn that he had gone to London and would guess the rest. But she would, of course, be too tired after the voyage to go any further. He would find her at the George, no doubt of it; and indeed in Guernsey as likely as not. He had been guilty of the schoolboy error of thinking that facts known to oneself must be known to everyone else. He had no reason, after all, to assume that she even read the newspapers. As for his letter from the Cape, the ship to which it was entrusted could have been delayed. She would not have received it at all and it might not be delivered until some time next week. Poor Fiona had been compelled to learn patience over the years, almost like the wife of Ulysses, and it would be strange indeed if she showed impatience now instead of waiting sensibly at the one place where he was certain to present himself. He slept badly that night and woke several times to assure himself that Fiona was still in Guernsey and could not possibly be in London on the morrow.
Next day at the Admiralty the First Lord looked him over and all but deplored his shabby appearance. As for Northmore and Topley, he glanced at them and looked away again with an ill-suppressed shudder. He waved them all into his carriage, nevertheless, and they presently found themselves in a traffic jam. Pall Mall, St James’s Street, and the Haymarket were all blocked with carriages and they did well to reach Carlton House in time. Delancey then found himself following Mr Yorke upstairs to the first floor room where the levee was to be held.
So far there had been an element of confusion but at this point equerries took over and began placing everybody in their proper place. The First Lord was now given due consideration as a Minister of the Crown. With Delancey and the other two officers he was placed at no great distance from the red carpet where the Prince was to stand. Military uniforms tended to predominate and the buzz of conversation was punctuated by the jingle of spurs and the clatter of swords. More junior officers looked awkward and nervous. More senior officers made it sufficiently clear that they had attended so many similar functions that the whole thing had become a bore. The First Lord fretted a little over the Regent’s late arrival, hinting in effect that he had more important work to do. He presently fell into conversation with Lord Liverpool, the Secretary for War, who had with him a recently appointed Major-General and two Colonels, one of the Dragoon Guards and the other of the Royal Engineers. Delancey would have liked to tell Northmore who all the dignitaries were but he could himself recognize only two or three, Lord Moira being one of them and Lord Bathurst another. He knew that the Prime Minister, Mr Spencer Perceval, was supposed to be there but he failed to identify him. At long last a court official called out “His Royal Highness the Prince Regent,” and the levee fairly began.
The Regent, whom Delancey now saw for the first time, was forty-eight but looked much older. He was grossly overweight although not quite as fat as he had been, and he had been crammed with difficulty into the elaborate uniform of a Field-Marshal. He was the more often so dressed in that the rank was one to which he had aspired in vain as long as his father ruled. Years of dissipation had left their mark on him but he was as charming as ever and as polite to everyone. With him was the Duke of Cumberland, of whom the Regent took little notice, and Lord Moira, with whom he was evidently on the best of terms. There was much bowing and scraping and the Prince finally took up his expected position and the presentations began. When the First Lord of the Admiralty saw his opportunity, he led Delancey forward and said:
“I hope your Royal Highness will allow me the honour of presenting Captain Delancey, lately commanding the frigate Minerva.”
“I had thought the Delanceys were all soldiers. Oliver Delancey is a General, surely, and William is doing great things in the Peninsula. Are you related to them, Captain Delancey?”
“We are cousins, your Royal Highness.”
“And you, I gather, are rivalling your cousins in distinction. I heard with great pleasure of your successful action in the West Indies—”
A secretary whispered something in the Prince’s ear. “I mean, in the East Indies. Your capture of a French frigate will long be remembered as a notable feat of arms and one very creditable to the Royal Navy.”
The First Lord intervened at this point.
“Your Royal Highness should know that Captain Delancey fought two French frigates off Madagascar and captured them both; a most unusual achievement—one almost without example.”
“Ah, to be sure. Two frigates! Most remarkable!” The secretary was whispering again in the Prince’s ear.
“Yes, yes, of course,” said the Regent. As if by magic a footstool was thrust into position and a sword placed in the Regent’s hand.
“Kneel,” was the First Lord’s stage direction and Delancey knelt. The secretary whispered again, evidently to convey the first name correctly. The sword tapped Delancey’s shoulder.
“Rise, Sir Richard Delancey!” said the Regent. Delancey rose, stepped back and bowed deeply. He then spoke his own piece.
“I thank your Royal Highness for the honour you have been pleased to bestow on me. I hope your Royal Highness will allow me the further honour of presenting Captain the Hon. Stephen Northmore and Captain Topley, both recently of the frigate Minerva.”
The two officers bowed in turn and stepped back, the First Lord then motioning them aside as the next candidate for presentation—the Sheriff of York—came forward. So far as Delancey and his officers were concerned, the ceremony was over.
“Congratulations, Sir Richard,” said the First Lord, leading the way to his carriage.
“By your leave, sir.” said Delancey, “I am bound in the other direction, for St James’s Square, only a short distance away, and I shall be there sooner on foot.”
“Very true,” said the First Lord, looking at the traffic. “I’ll say farewell then. Perhaps these two officers will come with me to the Admiralty, however. We shall need to discuss their future employment.”
Delancey parted from the others, walked into St James’s Street, and was soon back at Colonel Barrington’s house. He was shown up to the Colonel’s bedroom and explained to his host that he had just received the honour of knighthood.
“What did I tell you, Delancey? The Regent thinks as highly of you as I do! I wish we could celebrate the occasion as we should once have done. I have to go easy these days, you know, and I dare say my physician does well to keep me on a tight rein. But it does me good to hear of merit being recognized, and especially the merit of a friend. I’ll tell you what, though, I shall come down to dinner, if only to have the pleasure of drinking your health. Yes, we must dine together—perhaps for the last time—and I’ll give orders to put the champagne on ice.” The Colonel then pulled a cord by his bedside and there was a faint sound of a distant bell. The Colonel’s valet appeared.
“Now, Dobson, you must know that Captain Delancey has just received the honour of knighthood. He is now Sir Richard Delancey. Please inform the other servants so as to ensure that they address him correctly.”
After some further conversation and reiterated congratulations, Delancey took his leave—seeing that the old Colonel was tired—and went along to the drawing room, from which he could look down into the square. Would she arrive in the course of the day? He told himself that the idea was absurd. He would leave for Portsmouth in the morning and would find her at the George. What if they passed each other on the way, though? It seemed all too possible. He turned away from the window and picked up the newspaper which a footman had brought him. What was the news of the Peninsula? There was the sound of a carriage in the square but he had learnt to ignore that, for there were carriages passing all the time. He looked at his watch and was surprised to see that it was only the half-hour after noon. How would he spend the day? Restlessly, he went to the window again and at that moment a footman threw open the door and announced, with a certain emphasis:
“Lady Delancey!”
Fiona was in his arms, her tears wetting his cheeks, her voice a mere whisper.
“Fiona!”
“Richard!”
“You are much more beautiful than I had remembered . . .”
“You are no older than when you sailed for the East . . .”
“Let’s never be parted again!”
“Never again, Lady Delancey!”
“Does that mean—I thought perhaps the footman had made a mistake—are you really?”
“I was knighted this morning.”
“And no one ever deserved it more. I’ve only just realized what you did in that action. All this hand-to-hand fighting should be left to more junior officers! And you were wounded, too! How proud I was to read the gazette letter but I shuddered to think of the needless risks you ran. Old Captain Savage told me what it means for one ship to fight two. He thinks you are the cleverest man alive and so you are! There are already ballads about you and the Minerva and I was shown a broadsheet in Portsmouth with a woodcut supposed to be of you but first intended, I expect, for Admiral Keppel. You are famous, darling, but you have done your share of the fighting and must stop now before you are more seriously hurt.”
“Agreed, my love. And now to deal with our immediate plans: Colonel Barrington has asked us to dine with him and he is getting up for the occasion. He has also invited Northmore and Topley and maybe some ladies as well. We are to dine at two. Your maid will have unpacked for you by now and there will be plenty of time to dress for dinner.”
“All the time in the world, my love.”